


to keep me from getting to you, babe

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 21:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5680933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aaron can't dance, everyone knows that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to keep me from getting to you, babe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mydrunkjoey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydrunkjoey/gifts).



> For Joey, I promised Walsey. I did it in typical us fashion, which means it's completely and utterly sappy.

 

 

Theo grows up with his parents’ record collection, watching the stark black vinyl spin round and round under the needle, filling the house with music. His mum sings along to The Supremes when she makes breakfast and his dad whistles while he cleans his shoes. Sometimes, the whole family gathers in the living room, singing along to the music, arguing over who gets the have the best solo.

 

Motown plays when he learns to dance, twirling his sister around their kitchen, his mum clapping delightedly in the background. He juggles a ball to the beat of the Jackson Five and the arc of his free kicks is accompanied by the soaring vocal of Lionel Richie.

 

Later on, he learns to quiet his mind as he plays, stripping soundtrack for instinct, but he still sometimes hears the beat in the too-loud slice of the ball against the back of the net.

 

If you asked Theo Walcott what genre of music he’d happily listen to for the rest of his life, he’d say motown and smile at you indulgently, because you couldn’t possibly know how much of him is wrapped up in the scratch of needle on vinyl and a warm room in a cramped house in Berkshire.

  
  


*

  
  


Aaron can’t dance. 

 

That isn’t a joke, by the way. It’s a fact, born from long observation of Aaron awkwardly bopping along on the dancefloor, seemingly trapped in a beat only he can hear (that happens to be totally different to the music that’s actually playing). Aaron has two left feet and a perimeter around him, just so everyone can safely avoid his drunken flailing limbs.

 

His grandma always said that a man who can’t dance isn’t a real man.

 

As Theo presses a kiss against Aaron’s forehead before curling closer to him on the bed, he thinks that it’s probably the only time she got it wrong. 

 

Aaron makes a noise in his sleep and slides his arm tighter around him. Theo leans his head on his chest, trying to figure out the song in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

  
  


*

  
  


Truthfully, Theo never thought he’d have this; a blazing career in football with a club he loved, his own house with a dog and a record collection that spans an entire wall. And Aaron, sprawled lazily on the sofa, reading a magazine, looking soft and welcoming in the late afternoon light.

 

“Do you mind if I put on some music?” he asks, watching as Aaron looks up, offering him a smile.

 

“I never mind,” Aaron says, grinning. “Did you buy another record?”

 

“No, just something old I felt like hearing again.”

 

“They’re all old,” Aaron says, teasing, watching Theo put the record on the turntable, moving the needle carefully onto the glossy surface.

 

“At least it’s not Coldplay,” Theo says, more by reflex then intent. Aaron’s taste in music is actually okay, and he’s willing to indulge Theo’s, which is most important, but Coldplay is something they can never agree on.

 

The first chords of the melody start filling the room, sweet and aching, and for some reason, Theo’s mind flashes back to his childhood and twirling with his sister in the kitchen, their bare feet cold on the tile.

 

“Hey,” he says suddenly, “Rambo. Dance with me.”

 

“Theo?” Aaron looks at him quizzically, magazine forgotten. “But you know I can’t dance.”

 

“It’s okay. I’ll teach you, c’mon,” he stretches out his hand and Aaron goes willingly, a bit puzzled still, but trusting. Always so trusting. Sometimes, Theo fears that trust, keeps himself awake at night thinking about leading Aaron into something he doesn’t want and doesn’t need any longer. But then Aaron will let out a soft snore and bury his head into his chest, mumbling, and Theo will forget anything that isn’t him, and their bodies tangled close together.

 

He abandons teaching to another day after it becomes apparent that Aaron is adequate at swaying back and forth, at least marginally on beat.

 

They dance like that, pressed together cheek to cheek, with their arms tight around each other. The afternoon draws swiftly into evening, filling the room with pinks and oranges, casting their shadow along the wood floor, just barely moving.

 

They’re close enough that Theo can feel the catch of Aaron’s beard against his own and hear his heartbeat where their chests are pressed close together. Aaron’s breathing is calm and even, but his heart is racing. Or maybe that’s Theo’s heart and he’s just lost the distinction between the two.

 

Eventually, the song runs out into silence, the needle disengages with a click and they stop, leaning on each other, equally quiet. 

 

Until Aaron sighs, running his hands up Theo’s chest to cup his face in his hands, tugging him those last few inches into a kiss.

 

They kiss softly, closed mouthed, almost chaste, if it weren't for the desperate way Theo’s hands are clutching at Aaron’s sweater, and the way Aaron smooths his thumbs down his cheekbones, to his jawline, drawing patterns against his nape.

 

Eventually, they have to come up for air, foreheads tipped against each other, sharing the same air, identical dopey grins on their faces. 

 

“I wasn’t so bad, was I?” Aaron asks, grinning, and Theo laughs, darting in to steal another kiss.

 

“You were awful,” Theo says in turn, smile widening at Aaron’s sudden pout. “But that’s okay, I’ll teach you.”

 

“Yeah?” Aaron says, and there’s a weird uncertainty in his tone, “It might take a while. I don’t know if you’re up to the challenge.”

 

“We’ve got time,” Theo says, pulling back so they’re looking at each other. “I’m planning to stick around for a while.”

 

It’s a little dizzying, confronted with a full-on Ramsey grin at such close quarters. It makes the dimples in his cheeks stand out and his eyes sparkle, and half a dozen love songs suddenly make a whole lot more sense.

 

“Put on another record, Walcott. I’m holding you to that promise.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> 1\. Theo says that Rambo and Per are the worst dancers at the club.  
> 2\. Theo grew up in Compton, Berkshire.  
> 3\. The song they're dancing to is [Nowhere to Run by Martha Reeves and The Vandellas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQRIOKvR2WM)  
> 4\. Title is from Marvin Gaye's Ain't No Mountain High Enough, which is Theo's favorite song.  
> 5\. I DON'T EVEN GO HERE.


End file.
